


Well Tailored

by BleedingTypewriter



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Falling In Love, Light BDSM, M/M, Nero goes crazy for a smart dressed man, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Devil May Cry 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 03:38:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18652126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: Nero might have a bit of a thing for men in suits. Dante might have a bit of a thing for Nero.





	1. The First and Second Times

**Author's Note:**

> This started years ago as a smutty one-shot to get suit sex out of my brain.
> 
> Now it's a whole little friends-to-lovers arc.
> 
> Go figure.

The first time Nero sees Dante in a suit they aren’t together yet, so he has to cover his shock with a particularly zealous glare, even as the area just below his belly button tightens so suddenly it almost hurts.

The older demon hunter is being a complete asshole, as usual, so he doesn’t notice anything amiss. He strides out of his room in a slightly wrinkled black suit, shirt undone and tie hanging loose around his neck, and asks Nero, smirking, “Tell me the truth, do I look sexy or _unbelievably_ sexy?”

And, alright, the thought that Dante would look good in a suit had occurred to Nero the moment the older man started tearing through every closet in the shop searching for anything even remotely suit-like to wear to an old friend’s funeral. (A bartender at Love Planet, Nero learns later; one important enough for Dante to dress for the occasion, and the sour taste of jealousy is an interesting one mixed with the tang of lust.)

But he hadn’t been prepared for the _reality_ of Dante in a suit. The fucking thing looks like it’s been stuffed in a sack for the better part of the last five years, and it _still_ makes Nero half hard in his pants, and it pisses him the fuck off.

So he swallows all the commentary on how the black makes his eyes fiercely blue and how the cut makes him look like Don fucking Draper and how Nero wants to push him into his chair and crawl underneath the desk and pull his cock from those fucking _amazing_ suit pants and swallow him whole. He chokes down all that sweetness, sickly and overstrong in his throat, in favour of a bitter, “Fuck _off_ , old man.”

Dante just laughs, and it’s such a _carefree_ sound, and all Nero can think about is how it’d sound with a choked off sigh at the end as Nero pulls him down by the tie and shoves his Bringer…

The younger half demon is up the stairs and in his room with his cock out before Dante’s laughter fades.

The older half demon assumes he’s just being pissy (especially so, if the bangs and grunts that follow are anything to go by).

___

The second time Nero sees Dante in a suit, they’ve only been fucking a few weeks. Nero still spits venom every time Dante sets off that heavy tingling below his belly button (which is _all the fucking time_ now that Nero has memories to go off of instead of his imagination), and Dante still uses smart aleck “charm” like a measuring tape to keep Nero at a safe distance.

But they _have_ been fucking, and Dante’s given no indication that he’d like to stop any time soon, and that makes all the difference when he saunters down the stairs in a new suit.

Nero has tried to prepare himself this time. He _knows_ Dante has been shopping for a new suit for Kyrie’s wedding. He’s agreed to go with Nero, ostensibly to “keep him from killing the groom,” and the fact that _Dante is his wedding date_ has been hard enough for the younger half demon to process, let alone the fact that he'd be wearing another goddamned suit.

He _knows_ , after scrubbing his laptop history clean of searches like “gay suit dom” and “muscle office fuck” for the better part of the last three months, that he might have a bit of a _thing_ for guys in suits.

But Dante strolls in in a brand new suit the colour of gunmetal, and even with the extra fabric flapping at the waist and the bottoms of the trousers dragging along in need of a hem, Nero can’t fucking _breathe_.

And of _course_ Dante notices immediately, and his smirk goes from smarmy to absolutely shit-eating, and Nero _really_ doesn’t want to hear whatever smart-ass comment is going to follow, so before the son of Sparda can open his mouth, Nero occupies it with his own tongue. And _fuck_ , Dante’s tied the tie this time, so Nero is able to lash out with his Bringer and drag that shit-eating smirk across the shop to his own waiting mouth. He kisses Dante like he _hates_ him (and very specifically spares very little thought for the fact that he really, really doesn’t anymore).

The suit is all smooth fabric and straight seams and underneath Dante is all hard muscle and warm skin, and Nero wonders if pulling back to see what the gunmetal colour looks like in the blue light of his Bringer is worth the shit he knows he’s going to get when Dante’s tongue is no longer ( _fucking hell_ ) curling around his like a goddamned cat. It’s weird, because usually Nero fights like hell when this happens. Usually he growls and bites and hisses in a bid to finally one-up the son of Sparda, and it never works, but it also never fails to make his dick hard, so he takes it on the chin. But this time he’s all groans and gasps and whimpers and it’s _him_ who pulls at the lapels of Dante’s jacket and walks them backwards until his own back is pinned against the wall.

And he _keeps_ pulling, wants Dante to fucking tower over him and bear down on him and _take_ him. Something about the fucking _suit_ (and fuck it all, Dante’s working feverishly at the buttons on the top and bit by bit Nero can feel his hot, sticky skin juxtaposed against the smooth fabric and he’s actually worried his hard on might tear through the fucking thing if Dante grinds against him).

Dante finally rips his lips away and laughs, but it’s short and breathy and muffled in the crook of the younger man’s neck, so Nero doesn’t take it as a complete loss. “That good, huh?” he asks, and laughs again, and it sets off a hot burst of rage behind Nero’s solar plexus because Dante can never just fucking _shut up_ unless he has the upper hand (and usually not even then).

But then Dante’s positively _attacking_ his neck, and pinning Nero’s hips to the wall with his own, and gripping at a hipbone with one hand while the other slips up his shirt to rub circles around a nipple, and all the while he’s murmuring hot, embarrassing nothings that make Nero want to come in his pants and strangle Dante in equal measure.

“Shut up,” Nero says, “Shut the fuck up.” But his Bringer is tangled in Dante’s hair and he’s pushing _hard_ against the older man’s hips, so Dante just chuckles.

“I would,” he says, pulling back, and Nero can see that the suit is a dark, swirling blue in the flashing light of his Bringer, “But you don’t want me to.”

Nero grits his teeth. ‘Fucker didn’t even phrase it as a _question._ ’

And then Dante grabs him by the hair and _pulls_ so he can hiss directly into the spot below the younger man’s ear, “Tell me you don’t want me to fucking _own_ you,” and grips Nero’s belt with both hands and pulls and _rips_ the thing in two like it’s made of paper.

Nero doesn’t have time to be pissed. It’s such a blatant, arrogant display of power, and Nero would usually want to gut the bastard for it, but all he can see is that fucking _suit_ and the shreds of his belt in Dante’s hands as he tears them from his belt loops, and _fuck_ he can’t even think clearly enough to know that he _should_ be angry.

He sinks to his knees hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t notice. He fumbles pulling Dante’s cock out and holds fast when the older man moves to pull the pants completely off. He gets a chuckle and an amused, “Kinky bitch,” for that, but the hot, sick shame he expects is replaced by an electric jolt that runs down his spine and straight to his cock. Even Dante seems surprised when Nero just groans and palms himself through his jeans.

The surprise doesn’t last long, though, as Nero swallows him to the root.

Dante grunts, steadies himself against the wall with one hand and grasps at Nero’s hair with the other. Usually the younger man is a little brat, teasing at the head of Dante’s cock until the older man nearly has to force it down Nero’s throat, but today he takes him in so quickly he nearly makes himself gag.

To his credit, he manages to take his time, at first. He swallows around Dante, buries his nose in the scent of clean fabric and coarse hair, and pulls back _slow_ , hollowing his cheeks all the while. The older man exhales in staccato and tightens his grip on Nero’s hair, but that just makes him groan as he grabs at the warm, bunched up suit fabric at Dante’s ass and _pulls_ Dante’s cock back into his throat.

Dante unleashes an absolute _litany_ of curses and promises, and when he growls, “You suck cock like you were fucking _born_ to do it,” Nero breaks his own zipper in his haste to pull out his own neglected length and is forced to rip his fly open for relief. He takes hold of himself with his Bringer, closes his eyes as the burst of excited light is so bright it nearly blinds him, and savours the rough, “ _Yeah_ ,” Dante chokes out.

And then there’s nothing slow about it. Nero bobs his head quickly, glances up when he can to catch a glimpse of that fucking _suit_ and how flushed it makes Dante’s face look. The older man doesn’t really seem to be aware of what he’s saying anymore.

“You have any idea how fucking hot you look like this?”

On the next bob, Nero forces himself down so quickly he actually _does_ gag himself, but it only makes him twitch and ooze precome over the talons of his Bringer.

“You - ah, yeah, like that - you like getting on your knees for me?”

Nero stops moving his Bringer altogether, instead grabs at the base of his own cock as a dangerous wave of pleasure threatens to bowl him over the edge.

“I’m going to tie you down with this tie and spread you open with my tongue until you can’t remember your own name.”

Nero’s eyes roll back in his head, and he’d laugh if he could, because he _already_ can’t remember his own name (or _anything_ , really, except the exact cut and colour of Dante’s suit).

He starts to taste the tell-tale hint of bitter salt, and Dante’s hips start thrusting forward of their own accord, so Nero releases the older man’s pants with his human hand and fists it in the fabric of the shirt instead. He’s amazed he has the wherewithal, what with his own cock pulsing in his Bringer, red and leaking and painfully close to release.

Then Dante pulls Nero back by the hair and holds him still in a grip so hard it hurts (another drip of precome runs down in between his talons), and starts pulling at his cock harshly.

And Nero, not even really understanding what he’s asking for but knowing he fucking _needs_ it, rasps out, “ _Please_.”

For the first time since the whole thing started, Dante is silent. He blurts, “ _FuckI’mgonnacome_ ” in a rush, and then doesn’t make a sound; he doesn’t even seem to breathe as his whole body tightens and he pulls Nero’s face in closer and _comes_.

It splatters over Nero’s cheekbones and chin and tongue. He lets it happen; leans into it, even, though it causes his neck to crane at a more severe angle, Dante’s grip still tight. This close up he can see the older man’s cock twitch; can see the way he thrusts compulsively into his own palm with each pulse. When he looks up, Dante is the least put-together Nero’s ever seen him, transfixed and flushed and panting, suit rumpled and bunched. The older man lets go of his hair to brace his forearm against the wall, mouth slack and pupils blown.

He’s keenly aware of the come dripping over his face and down his neck, and when Dante pushes forward to run the tip of his dick, still firm and dripping, around Nero’s lips and over his tongue one more time, the younger man loses it in a way he hadn’t known before he’s capable of.

He comes practically without moving his Bringer at all. Unlike Dante, he’s anything _but_ silent, letting out a raspy stream of obscenities punctuated with _yes_ and _ah_ and the older man’s name. He realizes too late that he’s getting streaks of white all over Dante’s pant legs, but somehow the sight of his own come against the silvery fabric only makes his cock twitch again in feeble interest.

When he has nothing left to give, he sags bonelessly against the wall, even though it forces his already sore knees to bend at an uncomfortable angle. He lets his eyes flutter closed, breathing hard, and thinks, vaguely, _‘What the fuck was that?’_

Abstract shame comes creeping in. Just as he’s about to wipe his face or cover himself or scurry away from the condescending look he can practically see on Dante’s face behind his eyelids, the older man kneels and pulls him forward by the shoulders and, heedless of the cooling come sticking itself to Nero’s face, kisses him. It’s soft, but there’s something fierce in it; something Nero can’t identify and isn’t sure he wants to right at this point in time, anyway. He kisses back and, hesitantly, rests his human hand at the nape of Dante’s neck. He leans into the hands holding him steady, a warm, not-entirely-unpleasant embarrassment pooling in his stomach at the way Dante’s thumbs trek back and forth over his skin, the touch somehow calming and deceptively intimate.

Under any other circumstances, Nero would never let Dante live down the way he looks when he pulls back, his own cold come smeared around his lips, staring at the younger man like he’s never seen him before. But he has the sneaking suspicion he’s actually in the more taunt-able position and, perhaps more importantly, it somehow doesn’t make him want to taunt Dante at all.

It somehow makes him want to curl up in the other man’s arms and breathe in his scent and try to see how fast he can get his heart to beat.

The mortifying confusion of that thought must show on his face, because Dante smiles a little, though there’s no cruelty in it.

If anything, there’s something as confused as Nero in it.

Neither of them seems to know what to say, so they don’t say anything at all. Dante stands and helps Nero to his feet, and slips out of his soiled suit, and doesn’t make a single snide comment. Nero wipes the come from Dante’s chin with the discarded suit, and doesn’t even smirk.

Later, after they’ve parted ways awkwardly in front of the bathroom, neither quite ready for the intimacy of a mutual shower, Nero will drive himself nearly insane, wondering what the hell kind of line they’d just crossed and why things feel so different.

They won’t talk about it, or fuck, for days.


	2. The Third Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third time Nero sees Dante in a suit, it changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time since I posted any of my fan writing. I forgot how lovely people can be. Glad you seem to enjoy my weird romantic head porn. That's pretty rad.

The third time Nero sees Dante in a suit, he has more important things to worry about than the pang of lust that goes off behind his belly button.

He’s too busy wrapping the last of his Bringer in thick bandages, lamenting the way he has to keep one sleeve of his own suit rolled to his bicep to avoid the jut of bone at his elbow. He can still see the flash of his embarrassment through the wrapping, which only intensifies the glow, and Nero seriously considers skipping the wedding all together. Dante practically has to drag him out of their hotel room and into the church, and Nero insists they get a seat in the very back corner, where at least people will have to crane their necks and draw attention to themselves to stare at him.

A few do, anyway.

And weirdly, Dante seems to tense at it almost as much as Nero does.

The ceremony is long and religious, and Nero wonders how strange it must be for Dante to sit through it considering it’s his father they keep using to bless the happy couple. Kyrie is beautiful and her groom, some knight of the Order Nero’d known through the grapevine, has eyes only for her, and the ex-Fortunian only realizes as they’re walking down the aisle out of the church that he feels no jealousy or animosity. He’s genuinely happy for his step-sister, if humiliated at the way he’s managed to pull attention at _her_ wedding because of his arm. He doesn’t blame her at all when, upon arriving at the reception, they find their spots in the back corner of the hall. Dante looks incredulous, and doubles down on it when Nero’s only reaction is a shrug.

Dante gets them both drinks, and Nero thinks that, were they still fucking ( _are_ they still fucking?), he’d blow the man for it. The last thing he wants is to wade through the crowd and give more people a chance to stare. Dante, with his good looks, and having saved the city (they seem to have conveniently forgotten that _Nero_ was somewhat involved on that front, too), makes it through easily enough, rebuffing offers here and there for a dance (or a phone number; or other things strictly forbidden before marriage in Fortuna, the goddamned hypocrites) every few feet.

Nero resolutely ignores the jealous twist in hit gut.

He fidgets at the table, waiting for Kyrie to make her rounds so he can make as graceful an exit as it’ll be possible for him to make. Beside him, Dante seems tense, glancing at him now and again, and as has been the norm for the last few days, Nero can’t gauge a single thought in his head. They barely touch their meals, but don’t miss out on much (Nero’s pretty sure the lovingly, painstakingly plated minimalist dishes equal out to about eight forkfuls in total).

When she finally makes it to their corner, he’s barely kissed her on both cheeks and offered a “Congratulations!” when her new husband sweeps up from behind and tells her it’s time for the father-daughter dance (his father apparently filling in for Kyrie and Nero’s deceased one). She looks apologetic, but not incredibly so, and Nero waves her off with a smile.

He waits until she takes her place on the dance floor and all eyes are focused on her before making his way to the doors that lead from the hall to the grand back garden. His arm is glowing something fierce under his bandages, and in the dimming light it attracts a few glances and murmurs (and _Sparda_ , he hopes Kyrie assumes it’s people whispering about _her_ and how beautiful she looks, not her _freak_ step-brother for the millionth time).

He feels twelve years old again.

Outside there are rows of hedges and manicured rose bushes, and behind one he finds a bench where no one from inside can see him. It’s a little clearing, bordered on all sides with tall bushes speckled with tiny pink flowers that look as though someone’s measured them with a ruler for equidistance, and he collapses onto the single stone bench with a shaky sigh. The sky has darkened, but the night is clear and the moon is nearly full. The first soft strains of violin float into the garden from the hall.

“You okay?”

Nero jumps. He hadn’t even realized Dante had followed him, which says more than he ever could about his state of mind.

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” Nero says, then adds, with a sidelong glance at Dante, “I don’t know why _either of us_ are here.”

Dante narrows his eyes, as if considering this himself, and then closes the distance between them. He pulls Nero determinedly to his feet.

“It’s a wedding,” he says simply, “We’re here to dance.”

The younger man rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off,” he says, but the son of Sparda doesn’t let him pull away, and doesn’t offer the teasing grin Nero expects.

“Dance with me,” Dante says.

Nero stares at him.

“You can’t be serious.”

“No one can see us out here.”

Nero hesitates. Dante almost sounds like he’s begging. _Almost._ Like he’s not taking the piss at all.

“I…”

The younger man doesn’t know how to answer (doesn’t know how to _dance_ , for that matter), but Dante isn’t deterred. He rests one hand on Nero’s waist, takes his Devil Bringer in the other, and pulls him carefully in.

“Relax,” he says softly as Nero places his human hand stiffly on the older man’s shoulder, “Follow my lead.”

They begin to sway together. It takes a minute to find a rhythm; Dante tries too hard to lead and Nero doesn’t know how to follow. Looking at his feet makes him feel like a cliché, but he can’t find it in himself to look Dante in the eye, either, so Nero settles for staring at their clasped hands and fighting his own blush.

Dante must be able to feel the tension in his body, because he starts running his thumb over the knuckles of Nero’s Bringer, though the younger man can’t really feel it through the bandages. “It’s _okay_ , kid,” he murmurs, and Nero feels a little of the fight go out of himself. He steps in closer, lets Dante move them in slow, somewhat oblong circles and, after a second, rests his cheek against the older hunter’s chest. It causes a surge of embarrassment to pool in his stomach, but it feels nice, so he decides to go with it; he’ll deal with the fallout later, when he has the energy to be humiliated on more than two major fronts.

“It’s not okay, though, is it?” he says, and he isn’t even sure, himself, whether he means the wedding or Kyrie or the strange, strained intimacy that neither he nor Dante seem to be able to properly navigate. He feels like he did all those months ago, after Sanctus had stabbed him in the arm and he’d felt his power leaching away, and all he could do was let himself sink with no control into a void he hadn’t understood. He feels his defiance failing him, and begrudgingly lets it happen, too exhausted for anything else.

Instead of answering, Dante reaches back to place Nero’s Bringer on his own shoulder, then moves to hold him by the waist with both hands. “It will be, though,” he says, then after a moment, “It can be…”

Nero pulls back, looks hesitantly up at Dante, face on fire. They stop swaying, but Dante doesn’t let him go, so Nero keeps his hands where they are, too. He knows acutely what his gut reaction is (to push Dante away, to spit curses at him, to crush him in the giant, translucent extension of his Bringer and tell him to _stop fucking around_ ), but something in the older man’s face gives him pause.

He looks unsure.

He looks _hopeful_.

“…can it?” Nero asks.

Dante doesn’t seem to know how to answer that. He furrows his brow; opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it and shuts it again. Nero finds it strangely endearing. He likes seeing Dante without his usual cocksure confidence; likes even more the idea that he’s one of the only people allowed to see him without it. It makes him want to kiss him.

So he does.

He’s halfway to Dante’s mouth before he realizes what he’s doing, and it’s too late to stop then, so he just lets it happen. For a split second, he wonders if he’s misread this entire situation entirely; wonders if Dante was just being nice (he doesn’t put it past the man to have no idea how to comfort a friend and end up treating them like a lover, instead). But Dante kisses him back without pause; pulls him in by the waist, in fact, and slides his hands further around him to hold him firm in his arms.

The faint sounds of violin drift off into the night air and, distantly, Nero can make out the sound of applause. No doubt Kyrie is beaming as her new father-in-law kisses her hand and all her friends and family, save one, cheer her on. She’s probably radiant, looking from face to face, blowing a kiss at her husband, and not missing Nero at all.

He barely spares it a thought. It hurts, but dully, buried under more pressing matters.

His fingers run up over the nape of Dante’s neck to bury themselves in his hair, and he regrets the bandages on his Bringer, because he can only really feel the other man with his left hand. Dante’s arms tighten, as if he wants Nero closer, despite the fact they’re already pressed together almost uncomfortably.

There’s a sort of wired desperation about it. They cling to each other, afraid what pulling away will mean, and it occurs to Nero that this has never happened without it being post- (or very obviously pre-) coital. And he’s not about to fuck in the back garden at his sister’s wedding, so he’s not sure of the etiquette here. Usually he pulls back either to work out which part of Dante to press his lips against next, or to flop, exhausted, onto the nearest surface and wipe himself down.

A pointedly cleared throat forces them apart.

Nero jolts his head back and makes to pull himself away, but only makes it as far as pressing his hands against Dante’s chest, wedged in the absence of space between them. The older man holds fast and keeps them determinedly pressed together. Nero, even through his suit, can feel the hunter’s fingers tighten.

A few feet away, a woman Nero vaguely recognizes stands glowering at them, arms crossed. Nero pulls again, feeling a familiar sense of shame roiling in his stomach, but Dante doesn’t budge; doesn’t even look at the woman. He stares down at Nero like it’s the first time he’s seeing him, and the younger man isn’t sure whether it’s Dante’s scrutiny or the Fortunian woman’s that makes the red rise on his cheeks again.

“Do you _mind?_ ” the woman asks indignantly.

Nero opens his mouth to offer an apology, if only because he’s done _enough_ on Kyrie’s big day, but Dante beats him to it.

“Not at all,” the older man says, and places another short kiss on the side of Nero’s slack mouth, “Do you?”

“Have some _respect_ ,” she says, “This is a _Sparda-blessed_ occasion.”

Dante actually laughs out loud at that. “Trust me, lady,” he says, “I don’t think dad would mind.”

All the same, he lets Nero go in favour of grabbing his bandaged Bringer in one hand, and begins tugging the younger man away through the bushes.

“So…was that because we’re both dudes, or because we’re out of wedlock, or because I’m older than you?” Dante asks when they’re far enough away that the woman will be sure not to hear.

“All of the above,” Nero responds, dazed, staring at their joined hands, wondering if Dante realizes he hasn’t let go, yet, “Plus people think you’re my uncle or something.”

Dante snorts.

They don’t speak again until they’ve made their way out of the maze of hedges and roses, and made it back to the hotel. Nero knows he should be worried; should be wondering if Kyrie will ever even speak his name again now he’s been caught kissing his older, male, maybe-uncle _at her wedding_.

But looking at Dante, all he can worry about is kissing him like that again.

___

They make it to the hallway outside their hotel room door before Dante lets go of Nero’s hand.

So, hey,  _this_ is unbearably awkward.

Nero’s Bringer hasn’t stopped glowing through his bandages since Dante kissed him in the garden, but it gives an especially enthusiastic flash when the older man lets it go. He stares at it, trying to will himself to look up, look Dante in the eye, put himself back on equal footing.

But who is he kidding? He and the son of Sparda have _never_ been on equal footing, why would he be able to best the man, now? _Especially_ in matters of the heart.

He’s exceptionally good at unrequited, misguided affection, and while Dante doesn’t seem all that comfortable with actual _feelings_ , he’s a damn sight better at them than Nero.

The older man tilts Nero’s chin up with one finger, and he's almost relieved to see the faintest of worry lines creasing the handsome face staring down at him. Dante, for the second time in as many hours, seems lost for words, and the silence stretches on and on until Nero can feel it taking up all the space between them.

Finally, the older man shifts his gaze to Nero’s Bringer, and takes it in his hand again, though this time he holds it in his outstretched palm and runs the fingers of his opposite hand over the coarse bandages. Nero can feel the heat building underneath the hide as the flashing blue intensifies even more. The damn thing has been uncomfortable at best and hellishly itchy at worst since he wrapped it up, but with Dante studying it, he becomes acutely aware of even the faintest sensation.

Dante looks supremely unsatisfied, and then, with a glance back toward Nero’s face, brings the appendage to his mouth and tears into the bandage with his teeth. The younger man reflexively pulls back, but Dante doesn’t let go, instead starting to pull at the bandage, letting it pool at their feet in limp ribbons.

Nero automatically looks up and down the hallway, tensing. Being in Fortuna, especially at Kyrie’s wedding, has brought back habits he’d thought had gone since moving to Capulet. A familiar, creeping anxiety crawls across his sternum at the thought of another citizen seeing his demonic arm.

Once the last of the bandage is discarded, running through his talons like water, a look bordering on disgust darkens Dante’s features. Again, the younger man reflexively pulls back, but Dante holds fast.

Gently, the son of Sparda runs his fingers over the dark red and bright blue. Nero had wrapped it so tightly that there are indents, even in the tough hide, crisscrossing in painful, itchy divots. Slowly, he brings the appendage to his mouth, and places a soft kiss in the palm, soothing his thumbs over the wrist and up the forearm.

A little choking noise sputters out of Nero’s throat.

Kyrie, once, had touched his Bringer like this, holding it in hers in the ruin of Fortuna with the rubble that was the Saviour scattered around them. Only it hadn’t been like this at all; Nero had been able to feel the minute tremors in her palms, the way she’d carefully avoided the talons and let go as soon as she could. The way she’d leaned in to kiss him while, at the same time, stiffening in her left shoulder where the heat of his demonic arm was leaching into the fabric of her dress.

She had never touched it again; had asked, gently as she could, if he wasn’t going to put on his sling when they went out together after that. Even after their short fling, after it had become painfully clear to both of them that their love was familial and not romantic, it had hurt him in a place Nero had thought untouchable.

There’s no inkling of hesitance in Dante’s touch. He seems, if anything, a little awed by the glowing flesh against his lips, his fingers almost reverent.

When he lets the Bringer slip from his grasp, he looks as close to desperate as Nero thinks it’s possible for him to look. And it makes something flip over inside Nero; he becomes aware, suddenly, that this is _Dante_ , who drives him to homicidal insanity, who looks absurdly handsome in his tailored suit, who makes him feel normal (and even impressive, sometimes).

Nero kisses him again, tugging him down by the lapels on his jacket and pulling him forward, pressing his own back against the hotel room door. He’s struck, again, with the need to be towered over by Dante; to have him override everything Nero _was_ and invade everything he _is_.

All at once, there’s nothing awkward about this at all.

Dante pushes forward at the same time Nero pulls, and the silence between them evaporates, replaced with bodies and increasingly heavy breathing and the swish of skin against fabric as they shift to cling to one another. That strange desperation is back; they kiss slowly, but deeply, like both of them are afraid what their physical separation will mean (as if they understand what their joining means in the first place).

“ _Excuse me._ ”

The groan Nero lets out is only half annoyed as Dante runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth before pulling away. He doesn’t even bother to look at who’s interrupted them this time; Dante turns his head to look, and it exposes the long, pale line of his throat, and Nero thinks it’s a better use of his time to pepper kisses up and down that warm, gunpowder-smelling flesh.

He positively delights in the almost imperceptible shudder he feels, and inhales sharply as, instead of pulling away, Dante leans in harder and forces him more tightly against the door.

“There’s room, go ‘round,” Dante grumbles, and runs his hands down Nero’s chest to slide under his suit jacket and rest against his ribs, thumbs running back and forth over the starchy fabric of his dress shirt. Nero feels the beginnings of arousal start to nip at the tips of his fingers, and it’s somehow stronger now it’s mixed with genuine affection.

He tries to find it in himself to be embarrassed. Really, he does. But all he feels is _Dante_ , and it’s too fucking fantastic to give up.

“No one wants to see…”

The voice trails off with an indignant scoff as Nero pulls Dante’s face back toward him, pressing their lips languidly back together and then running his hands down to rest on the taller man’s hips.

“Do I have to call security?”

Dante sighs into Nero’s mouth and pulls one hand back to fumble in his pocket for their key card, but doesn’t stop the hypnotic movement of his lips.

At the same time, Nero lifts his Bringer in a slow, deliberate one-finger salute before running the outstretched finger down Dante’s side and over his flank, where he opens his fingers and grabs a handful of the son of Sparda’s ass.

He delights in the affronted noise the motion receives from their spectator. Distantly, he wonders how mortified he’ll be at his own actions once the moment is gone, but right now he feels almost high.

He expects a laugh from Dante, and he gets it, kind of. It’s more moan than laugh, though, and mixed with a lilting beep as the older man tries, and fails, to open the door. He wrenches his lips away to slide the key card into the lock properly, and Nero takes the opportunity to nip and suck at the earlobe presented to him. This time, Dante’s shudder is anything but imperceptible.

“I’m…I’m going to tell the manager about this…”

Finally, a longer, higher-pitched beep sounds and Nero feels the door give way behind him. “Uh-huh,” he responds dazedly, swallowing hard as Dante dips down to mouth at his neck, “You do that.”

Dante nips sharply at his throat; soothes over it with his tongue while he pushes Nero fully into their room. He turns away only long enough to put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob.

“Just let him know,” Dante says, “We won’t be available until tomorrow.”

He looks Nero up and down, then adds, just before the door closes, “Afternoon.”

Nero worries that now they’re truly alone with no threat of interruption, something will change. He’s not _opposed_ to a hard, fast romp that tastes of blood and stress. Not really.

But it’s not what he really _wants_ , either.

Dante backs him up with one hand on his chest until his back hits the picture window taking up most of the opposite wall. With his other one, he rips the blinds from the rod, letting the moonlight flood in so Nero can see his face.

It’s an aggressive move, and Nero’s jaw clenches. He makes to drop to his knees, tries not to focus on the sharp pang of disappointment in his gut, but Dante holds him up with a surprisingly gentle hand under his chin.

This time, the son of Sparda kisses him, cupping his jaw in both hands, and it’s almost _sweet_.

Nero melts despite himself, relief washing over his scalp and down his chest, mixing with the soft affection and humming arousal already there. He pushes against Dante who pushes him firmly against the cold glass, and he shivers a little, but he’s not sure whether it’s from the temperature change or Dante’s thumbs sweeping back and forth over his cheeks. 

When the older man pulls back, he slides his hands down to start working at the buttons of Nero’s shirt, pulling his tie loose on the way. Nero moves to return the favour, but Dante pushes the hands gently back to the younger man’s sides before returning to his work.

“Just let me…” he murmurs as he spreads the fabric of the shirt apart and runs his fingertips down Nero’s chest, following them closely with his eyes.

Even as the younger man flushes at the scrutiny, he glances over his shoulder out the window. They’re relatively high up, looking out over mostly deserted streets from the fourth floor, but even still…

“Someone might see.”

Dante’s fingers meander over his abs, and he seems to take pleasure in the way they twitch and tighten in response. “Lucky them,” he says, leaning down to lick up Nero’s neck and kiss at the sensitive spot just behind his ear.

Even as he leans in to the attention, tensing at the turn on, Nero purses his lips. “I’m _serious,_ Dante,” he says, insistent. His Bringer is going off like fireworks, and he clenches it into a fist, willing it to stop. They could be visible regardless, but with his arm acting like a lighthouse, their chances of being spotted are significantly increased, especially since (thanks to Dante, the bastard) they can no longer close the curtains.

“So am I,” the Dante murmurs against his neck, running his hands up Nero’s chest, pausing to thumb at his nipples before moving to push the younger man’s shirt and jacket from his shoulders. “Let them see what you do to me…”

“Dante…” Nero’s voice is uncertain, even as something electric and surprisingly possessive settles in his stomach at the idea of all of Fortuna watching Dante suck the fingers of Nero’s Bringer into his mouth, cock hard and twitching, shining with lube and spit.

“Don’t you want them to watch you get the son of their god on his knees for you, licking you open?” Dante asks, deftly maneuvering the suit over the elbow of Nero’s Bringer, dropping the material unceremoniously at their feet. He punctuates his question with a slow thrust of his hips against the younger man’s.

It forces the naked skin of his back against the cold window, and the sensation, along with Dante’s words and heat and obvious arousal pressing against him, forces a stuttering exhale from his lips. “ _Fuck_...that’s…I’m not...”

“Don’t you want to show them how their gods fuck?” Dante mouths at his throat, his collarbone, one nipple and then the other. Nero’s head thumps back against the glass, chest arching insistently forward and he moans brokenly.

He works at Nero’s belt, pulls it slowly from its loops and discards it before palming the younger man’s cock. He straightens in time to kiss Nero again, to lick inside and swallow his panting breath and low groan. “I want them to see you’re not fucking theirs to torment anymore,” he breathes into the younger man’s mouth, and savours the sound of Nero’s hands clenching against the window as he fights to keep them at his sides, the claws of his Bringer digging into the glass with a high-pitched scrape. “You’re _mine_ to torment.”

Dante feels more than hears the sound Nero makes as he loses his resolve and uses both hands to pull the taller man closer by the hair. He kisses him hard, slow, pushing against the hand still teasing him through his trousers. “Yeah,” he says in between kisses, running his hands over the warm, smooth fabric stretching over Dante’s chest, “Okay, do it, show 'em, show _me_ , _please_ …”

Dante makes quick work of his fly, shoves the fabric of his pants down just far enough to get his hand on the hard outline of Nero’s cock, straining against the soft blue fabric of his underwear. “Turn around,” he says, and hardly gives him room to do so. He stays close enough to drag his lips along the younger man’s neck as he turns, bracing himself against the window on both forearms.

For a while, Dante amuses himself by dragging his tongue and lips and fingertips in random patterns across the expanse of Nero’s back, just to feel him wriggle and gasp and sweat, but then he lowers himself to his knees, and places a lingering kiss against Nero’s tailbone as he tugs his underwear down.

He wishes, for a moment, that he’d done this when they were still facing each other, so he could have watched the way Nero’s cock, hard and curved and fucking perfect, would bounce and sway in waiting. But he knows he’d have been too tempted to draw first one ball and then the other into his mouth, lick up the length of him and swallow around him until he exploded with Dante’s name and God’s at war on his lips.

Anyway, he doesn’t lament long, opting instead to lean forward and lick over Nero’s hole, spreading him open with both hands and thrusting forward against nothing as his cock pulses hard in his pants at the “ _OhmygodDanteyes_ ,” Nero grates out.

He licks over and around and inside and marvels at the different ways it makes Nero come undone. He tries to find entirely new ways to make him leave those beautiful scratches in the glass below his right hand. He keeps both hands braced, Dante notes, leaving his cock untouched and bare to the world outside, and the son of Sparda wishes he could watch it twitch and leak at his ministrations.

It’s only a few minutes before Nero is canting his hips back and forth, shaking under Dante’s hands, asking him to “Fuck me, do it, I _want_ you…” in between hoarse moans, but the older man insists on taking his time. He works his partner open first with his tongue, then adds a finger, licking around it and pressing with a thumb just below, against the sensitive skin right behind his balls, a promise against the hyper-receptive nub beneath.

He pulls back only to grab the lube tucked into the front pocket of his suitcase and spread a healthy amount over his fingers, standing as he works two over and back inside.

Nero’s words dissolve into Dante’s name and formless exclamations. Dante adds a third finger and presses against the spot inside that makes Nero’s spine tense and undulate, and leans over to nibble and kiss at the nape of his neck, pressing himself against Nero’s hip and murmuring, “You feel how hard you make me? Want to be inside you, want to feel you come while I fuck you…”

From this angle he can finally see Nero’s cock, curved almost painfully upward and weeping, leaving obscene smears along the glass. He watches the way it jumps when he hits that spot inside, the way Nero shudders and pushes back more insistently. “ _Please_ ,” he begs, “I want...I _need_ …”

And then Dante becomes aware of how much he _needs_ , too, and uses the hand not buried knuckle-deep inside Nero to work his own pants open and shove them down just enough to free his cock. He pulls his fingers reluctantly from the heat and warmth of Nero’s ass to turn him around and kiss his slack lips before pulling a condom from his pocket (Boy Scout that he is; always prepared and all that).

Nero grabs at his wrist. He plucks the package from Dante’s fingers, and kisses him long and slow, and when he pulls back he looks strangely nervous for someone who’s been begging for it for so long.

“Do you…” he says, “Can we...I want to feel you…”

Dante holds him by the hips, stands close enough that he can practically feel the heat coming off Nero’s cock, but not quite touching. “Getting there…”

Nero shakes his head. “No, I mean...without…”

He gestures at the condom in his hand, and Dante will be proud for weeks about the fact that he manages not to gape.

“Are you sure?”

Nero nods. “If you’re okay with it…”

Dante can’t quite think of a way to express just how okay with it he is, so he just pushes forward to kiss Nero, _finally_ pressing their hips together, letting Nero feel the way he’s started pulsing at the thought of being inside _bare_. He’s wiled away many a night, clutching his own dick in his lubed hand, wondering just what it’d feel like to feel that heat and warmth with no barrier in between, how it would feel to _really_ fill Nero, to lay there afterward with no thoughts of pulling out to tie off a condom, turning sticky and uncomfortable.

He’s so enthralled by the idea that he grabs the lube again and slathers it over his own hardness, afraid that Nero’s touch would have him finishing embarrassingly early. Nero takes the opportunity to shed his pants and underwear completely, kicking his shoes and socks off along the way.

Dante keeps the majority of his suit on; smiles at the way Nero’s eyes keep running over it hungrily.

When Dante picks him up by the waist, Nero spreads his legs and hooks them on either side of the older man’s hips. He presses lightly against his entrance, catches for a moment, slips off. Presses; nudges almost in; slips off.

“Look at me, Nero,” Dante whispers as Nero’s eyes threaten to flutter closed, “I want you right here…”

The younger man doesn’t disappoint, locking blown eyes with Dante, clutching at his shoulders as slowly, _slowly_ …

It’s Dante who looks away first, clenching his eyes shut as he bottoms out, breathing out a wordless “oh” at the _heat_ and the _tightness_ and the way he can feel every single spasm inside. Nero leans down to kiss him as he clings even harder, cock still hard and leaving dark smears on Dante’s shirt.

He pulls out slow, draws in a long breath as Nero shifts his hips in time, then slides back in. “Oh my god…” Nero murmurs, almost worshipful. “Oh my god…”

Something prickles along the sensitive skin just underneath his nails; the hard line of his teeth. Dante holds him up like he’s weightless, shifting his hips as he pleases—upward and downward, backward and forward—like it’s _nothing_. He could _destroy_ Nero if he wanted; could put him right through the window and cleanly through the next five buildings without breaking a sweat. But instead of making him feel helpless, it stirs in him an unfamiliar, solemn desire.

He wonders if this is what the congregation used to feel at the peak of Sanctus’s sermons, full of something unexplainable but _right,_  painful in the _best fucking way._ He certainly _feels_ reverent, like he finally understands what it is to believe in someone more powerful than himself; to be found worthy by a man who, by rights, should want nothing to do with him; to be full to the brim with someone who keeps his promises (mostly, anyway; when it counts).

The window has turned warm against his back. Dante is holding him firmly enough that it’s only really supporting a fraction of his weight, so it squeaks against his sweaty skin whenever they shift and press him more firmly against it. Held up as he is, being worked onto Dante’s cock over and over again with just the strength in the son of Sparda’s arms, he’s only able to use his legs locked around Dante’s waist to nudge himself harder against the man’s hips in a futile effort for _moredeeperplease,_ drowning sweetly in Dante’s insistence on a slow, dragging pace.

_‘Don’t you want to show them how their gods fuck?’_ Dante had asked, and now that they’re doing it, Nero finds his earlier hesitance ridiculous. The thought of what anyone outside might see has him writhing with the same sense of submission he’d sunk into on the office floor, Dante’s come spurting over his face. Would they simply be two dark shapes against the illumination of his Bringer, moving lewdly against each other? Or are they more obvious? Could anyone see, if they wanted, the way he’s effortlessly maneuvered by Dante? The way he opens up and takes what the son of Sparda gives him and still wants more? The way Dante kisses sloppily at his collarbone and whispers hot and moist against his skin: “You feel so fucking good.”?

He wraps his arms around Dante’s shoulders so tightly he Bringer bites into the skin of one shoulder, right through the suit jacket and shirt. “Ah! S-sor–” he gasps, but loses the last of his apology against Dante’s lips, the older man moaning harshly against him as the smell of blood slithers in between that of sweat and spit and precome.

“So fucking perfect,” Dante says when they part, and he hitches Nero up higher on his waist so he’s fucking into him with more force, grabbing more firmly at his ass and making him _keen_. “ _Fuck_ , just wanna show you how fucking _perfect_ you are.”

Nero squirms at the praise. He shifts from a hyper-awareness of all the places Dante is touching him to a scarily unspecific overall perception. All he knows is fullness and pressure, Dante pushing in from all sides and bursting from within, wringing pleasure out of him like a sponge. “’m not,” he protests weakly around a moan.

Dante presses impossibly closer. Nero worries for a second that he’s going to lean forward so their weight is against the window—he’s pretty sure the thing would shatter with one good thrust against it. But Dante is still so strong, effortlessly in control; _taking care_ of Nero, using his control over him to bring him to the very edge of velvet satisfaction, and that fact alone has the younger man getting dangerously close to coming. “You _are_ ,” insists Dante, “So good for me, so _tight_ …”

Nero’s overstimulated. He’s so close he feels _past_ orgasm, raw and electric. Dante _drags_ in and out of him, filthy hot slapping noises undercutting their groans, and his dick is pressed right up against that _shirt_ and he’s... _he’s_ …

“Gonna come for me?” Dante asks against his throat, and then pulls back far enough to look deep into his face. “Gonna be my _good boy_ and show me what I do to you?”

And he’s done. He’s arching hard and tightening his legs around Dante’s waist so the older man is forced to slow his thrusts into a deep grind. Nero comes, and comes, and _comes,_ fucking _untouched_ , shaking in Dante’s arms, until he goes boneless (and the way Dante holds him up and against him, unshakeable, has him twitching one last time with the last pathetic vestiges of orgasm).

Dante hushes him through it, whispering things that Nero can’t quite catch outside repeated words like _good_ and _yeah_. But as he comes back to himself, pulling his awareness sluggishly back from where it’s exploded out of every pore, he realizes that Dante is still hard inside him. He actually _mewls_ (though he’ll deny it until the day he fucking _dies_ , thanks very much), and shifts his hips as best he can, purposely clenching around the older man’s cock while he mumbles against his broad, still-clothed chest, “C’mon, keep going, want you to come inside…”

The strangled sound he gets in return has his dick valiantly, but hopelessly, trying to come back to life.

“It’s okay, we should stop, you’ll be sensitive…”

Nero furrows his brow. Without the sharp edge of arousal, he feels intimately the odd submission he’s fallen into. He needs Dante to finish, needs to feel him do it, needs…and not even because he wants to get off, just because he fucking _needs._..

“Please,” he murmurs, and shifts his hips again, and tightens around Dante in a lazy pulsing rhythm. “Please, I can take it, I can take it _so good_ for you…”

He finds out very quickly that all the “good boy” talk hadn’t just been for his benefit. He stutters on the “you,” Dante’s sudden thrust turning it into a “yo-ou-ahh!”.

And he _does_ ; he takes it _so well_ , clinging to Dante as best he can while the half-demon holds him up like a doll and fucks into him with increasing abandon. He _is_ sensitive; it hurts a little, but he wants it to. “Would,” Nero gasps, basking in this new post-sexual thrill, not heading toward any edge, just flying high on being _Dante’s_. “Would do this _all night_ for you. Gonna take whatever you give me.”

Dante comes with a pinched off, “ _Fu-uck,_ ” eyes rolling back and fluttering closed, pulling Nero so hard against his hips it’s almost comical, like he wants to get his whole pelvis inside. Nero wonders if he’d be able to feel the heavy pulse of it if he weren’t going a little numb, over-abused and tender. Regardless, just the knowledge of what’s happening has him panting with some new, orgasm-less apex.

Still holding Nero’s mostly limp body, Dante takes two shaky steps backward and sits as gently as possible onto the bed. It jostles his cock inside the younger man; he groans softly, legs tensing briefly on either side of Dante’s hips. “Sorry,” Dante says, but he doesn’t sound all that sorry, stretching his stiff arms out and then brushing them up and down Nero’s spine mindlessly.

It tickles a little, but Nero can’t find the energy to squirm. He just lays his sweaty cheek against Dante’s covered shoulder and breathes deep and feels none of his usual apprehension. He feels worn out, mostly, and curiously clingy, running the pad of his Bringer over the scratches he’d left, ripped fabric over long-healed skin. He remembers the way his slip-of-the-claw hadn’t fazed Dante, had only spurred further delicious praise, and it makes something warm and round and puffy settle right below his clavicle.

Eventually, Dante grabs at his hips again and lifts him slowly. Nero could help, but he lets himself be manhandled, lets himself savour Dante’s strength just a little longer even as he winces at the slip of a softening cock past his sore entrance. There’s a filthy, nasty drip down his thighs afterward, and it’s gross, in a way, but also _hot_. He wants to feel proof of their fucking running down his skin, wants to feel every last disgustingly intimate bit of it.

Besides, with the way he’s still straddling Dante, it’ll probably stain the suit pants still bunched around his thighs. He looks forward to the telltale imperfection; hopes it’ll come out just enough that Nero can still make out where it is.

 “Are you okay?”

Nero mm-hmms lazily and presses a kiss against his neck. It’s clammy with cooling sweat; sticky and salty on his lips.

“Can we move? Your come is getting all crusty.”

Nero mm-mmms lazily and lets his eyes slide shut. Dante’s shoulder is pillow-like enough that he’s able to ignore the stiffening of his hips and knees.

Dante chuckles—actually _chuckles_ —and kisses his temple. He lifts Nero up again and deposits him on the bed, and he’s too busy enjoying being taken care of to really mind the cool sheets or the momentary lack of contact. Dante’s back in a minute, anyway, giving him a cursory wipedown with a somewhat scratchy hotel cloth and then settling in behind him, rolling him over to rest against his now-naked chest.

Nero is pretty sure his arm is going to go numb, tucked under Dante’s back like this. And he’s definitely going to get a crick in his neck, because the older man is nothing if not built, so his chest is far too muscled to act as a comfortable long-term pillow. But they’re not used to this; not used to anything aside from wiping off and walking away after sex. And they haven’t been used to anything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, and it’s turning out alright, so he settles in for a stiff, somewhat uncomfortable sleep and revels in every second.

_____________

To his credit, Nero only freaks out a _little bit_ when he wakes up the next morning, more sweat than man, stuck to Dante from ear to ankle.

He tenses up and immediately regrets it as his neck fights back after hours in the wrong position. His arm has, indeed, gone completely numb underneath him. They stink to high hell, and that’s…

Yes, that’s definitely more of Dante’s come stuck to the back of his thigh.

He breathes faster, wonders if he should shimmy away, jump in the shower, run to the harbour and swim the fucking channel and run back to Capulet to collect his things and go into hiding. But last night was…

Surely it had actually meant…

Dante’s arms tighten momentarily around him. “Are you done?” he asks, voice hardly more than a sleepy grunt.

It pisses Nero off for a second. Is he _done_? This is a bit to handle, he thinks; it _warrants_ a little freaking out. What even are they, now? _What even is this?_

“‘m here,” Dante says, “You’re here. Let’s just stay here for a while, okay, kid?”

It’s not an answer, but it extinguishes Nero’s anger like pinched fingers on a wick. He realizes that he hadn’t even had to _say_ anything; Dante had just _known;_ had still been here to take care of Nero, despite his silent, specific idiosyncrasies.

He’s here. Dante’s here. Nero likes the sound of it: just staying here for a while. Letting _it,_ _this_ , just be what it is: them, together, on top of the covers on a hotel bed with the sun streaming in through violently de-curtained windows.

He has the nagging feeling that _it_ , _this_ , will continue to be what it is for the foreseeable future: them, together, fighting bloodsoaked hoards and shouting _don’t die, you prick_ instead of _I care about you._

And them, together, arguing away Sunday afternoons, fucking or shouting it out, riding high on the fact that neither of them really cares about the outcome, anyway.

And them, together, having whole conversations in grunts and narrowed eyes and specific tensed muscles and venomous one-liners.

And them, together, peeling themselves apart and stretching out creaky, aching muscles, and stepping into a shower, and getting very, very clean before getting very, very dirty, and repeating the cycle until Management comes knocking at their door.

And them, together.

And them, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hey, that was an unnecessarily long bit of smut. This is what happens when you finish a "short one-off” after two years of puttering on it. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> Read closely and you can see the spots where I paused writing for a bit and came back with a slight variation in style. Weird.


End file.
